


Following the Apocolypse

by Sadissive



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Arcade Gannon - Freeform, Bound, Doctor - Freeform, Fallout, First Time, Hates him, Healing, Homosexual, Loves him, M/M, Sexual Discovery, Slow Burn, arcade gets captured by a raider, hostage, kidnap, master - Freeform, slave - Freeform, tied up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 19:24:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15892518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sadissive/pseuds/Sadissive
Summary: Arcade Gannon is stolen from his own bed in the middle of the night during a Raider attack on The Old Mormon Fort.Arcade finds himself hating his muscular, stern faced Raider captor, but none the less takes care of him gently and follows his every order. Will Arcade escape?The better question is: Does he want to?





	Following the Apocolypse

Arcade should have thought of himself lucky, all things considered, but it was difficult to think positively when you found your own hands tied behind your back and your friends all around you being slaughtered like creatures of the desert without a moment of hesitiation by the party doing said killings. Arcade had been minding his own business within the Old Mormon Fort, chatting with Julie Farkus late in the evening about his advancement in medicinal practices and how his certain demise would be to succumb to any form of socialization with the savage outsiders of the fort, dreading have to make any contact outside of his small village within Freeside. They had been talking as if they had all the time in the world, laughing at the occasional quick wit joke shared between them within Arcade’s tent. The makeshift hut he had claimed his own to watch over low maintenance patients that wouldn’t cause him grief or try to strike up personal conversation seemed to be the wisest move in living in a small society. Heaven knows Arcade lacked much conversational qeues.

When the raiders hit after the last fire had burned out of the camp, everyone but the few dozing off guards asleep in comfort, it happened in what seemed like a blink of an eye to everyone on the receiving end of the terror attack. The citizens had been resting without a stir one second, then in the next they were being dragged, bound, and tossed into a line inside their own protected walls that they had built themselves to keep out the unwanted. Three lines of people were formed as the raiders screamed in their own tribal language, shooting off rounds as they pleased into Freeside’s night sky, booming echos of the emptying magazines thundering into the ghetto. It was a normal occurance to hear gunshots where they had bunkered down, but never within their own walls had they experienced the automatic weapons going off in a raid against the people. The lines of sobbing, shaking people were clear to see of what attributes directed them to the line that best suited them. One line of men sitting on their knees, one line of the very few children they had, and the last line being women all rowed together like animals. 

 

Shooting the guards the second they opened the doors, the band of about a dozen raiders had took over the fort with nothing but one causality of their side, the element of surprising putting a halt to any potential raging firefight that could have broken out between the two parties. The raiders kicked up dirt clods and tanned gusts into the air as they roughly threw the rope bound people to the ground in their respective lines, talking to each other with a language that was only taught to raiders and elite tribe members. Arcade breathed hard, wincing as he heard the executions begin. He didn’t have the stomach to look, but he could make out their decisions based on whose screams were breathed for only a moment. One-by-one they were shooting any women who fought back, then all of the men.

 

Raiders used women and children to pawn off as sex slaves and servants, but the men? Ah, not enough caps in them for the hassle of transportation. Arcade’s body shook as the men only a few bodies down were shot in the head, making quick work of executing males as if it was just another chore. Feeling the silver .22 pistol growing closer to him, now only one or two heads away, Arcade felt the words leave his mouth before he had a moment to think. He was non-religious, but yet he prayed aloud in Latin to the Gods he had read about in old pre-war books. Tears streamed down his pink cheeks, blue eyes tightly shut as he continued to mumble the words of mercy when the man to his left was shot in the back of the head, dead.

 

Expecting to feel the void of life any moment, Arcade continued repeating his repentance and forgiveness in his learned language. But, the feeling didn’t come. After a few seconds of listening to the Raiders talk amongst them in the tribal language, Arcade blinked open his watery eyes and looked past his blonde hair that blocked his vision. In front of the kneeling man were two raiders, brown skinned and staring at him as if he was a three headed Brahmin. They talked quickly, confused expressions across their faces while they shifted stances and crossed their arms

 

One man in particular pushed passed the few men that stood in front of Arcade, moving them for his own purpose as he spit out harsh words at them in a tongue Arcade couldn’t make out the meaning of. The men parted, giving room to the Raider who crouched down to meet Arcade’s eyesight. He gazed intensely at the man, eyebrows lowered and body so close the blonde could feel the heat irradiating.

 

The raider had black paint lines underneath his eyes to symbolize battle, light brown skin that was hidden behind various bruises and dirt from the Mojave, dark brown hair that was shaved short across his head. He had scars, muscles, and the presence that he didn’t play around with anybody. He wore no shirt, only oak brown leather plants that were made undoubtedly by some form of local animal.

 

He breathed in the scent of Arcade through his nose, taking his dirtied hands and grabbing at Arcade’s wet cheeks till his face was squished together, lips protruding. The raiders asked a simple question that would hold the answer to Arcade’s fate.

 

“Latin?”

 

Arcade watched with his body frozen, the man holding his face while the raiders behind him went back to killing Arcade’s friends all around him. Swallowing his already dry mouth, Arcade slowly nodded and felt the warm hands of the man follow his movement. He answered back, though speech interrupted due to the squished face, “Latin. I speak Latin and English.”

 

The raider’s eyes went from intense to acceptance, giving a nod as the straight faced man let go of the blonde. The raider stood, pointing at Arcade to his comrades that paid enough attention to look. He yelled something about Arcade to them, demanding in his own language as he pointed to the kneeling. Arcade didn’t have a chance to ask what was happening before he was hit roughly in the back of the head with the same silver chipped pistol that had ended the lives of his closest family around him.

 

————

 

Arcade awoke with a harsh gasp, opening his tired eyes and feeling the hard sting of his head throbbing with pain. Groaning, he shifted his legs that were not bound and adjusted his body against the cold wall he was laid against. Hands still tied with the taught rope digging into his wrists, he tried his best to assess the situation before him. He was laid in a kitchen, a pre-war house that was showing signs of abandonment. He didn’t know where he was, but he was certain he wasn’t alone. Arcade heard shuffling of feet along with what sounded like metal being moved around in what he presumed was the living room attached to the open doorway kitchen. He laid against the plaster wall, squinting in the dark of the room while taking note of his surroundings. A few cans of beans, dirty water, and a radio that was off was the only thing worth noticing in the beat up kitchen.

 

Arcade’s mouth being bone dry, he decided to take a chance of quietly alleviating his thirst, thought not very confident in his ability to do so. He stood, using his freed legs and the back of the wall as a crutch to left himself against the plaster and the worn marble counter. Standing, feeling his knees ache just as bad as his head, he slowly made quiet steps with his black shoes against the sticky tile over to the far counter that held the old carton of water. In doing this, he turned his head to the left to peek into the brightly illuminated living room that was lit up by a lantern. Arcade saw a raider with his back turned to him, ripping out wires and different circuit boards that were strung together in a decayed stand up television set. He doubted that the raider knew how to use the wires appropriately, possibly just wanting to cause a mess for his own entertainment. Raiders were often like animals, making messes and unable to think beyond basic needs.

 

Arcade made it to the counter, bending his head down low till he was met with the capped cartoon of water that sat with dirty fingerprints in the dark. He placed his bound hands against his lower back, opening his mouth and using his teeth to try and turn the ridged plastic cap off of the cool cardboard.

 

Maybe it was out of eagerness or over judged force, but Arcade had jerked the cap that was against his teeth too tightly and knocked over the entire square bottle straight on its side, a noise against the hard counter that made an unpleasant contact sound as the water poured out onto the marble. Arcade cursed softly when he heard a boom of an object being thrown from the living room, bare footsteps pounding from the opposite straight onto the tile till they were right behind Arcade. The blond gasped when he had his hair gripped and left cheek shoved till it was pressed against the wet pooled counter, the sharp point of a knife pressed against his middle right wrist. “Bad! Bad! Bad!”

 

Arcade cringed when he heard the man’s voice shout at him, nodding in agreement as the side of his face laid in the dirty water. He talked slowly, not wanting to stir up the situation or agitate the man who held a knife to his veins. He was unsure how much English the man spoke, knowing that the tribes were illiterate in all the sense of the word. Arcade was one of the few in the Mojave that could read, even. “Drink. Water. Not escaping. Thirsty.”

 

The raider pushing the bent over the counter Arcade eyed the water that had fallen, watching it drip onto the floor and spread out against the counter. Giving a gruff throaty noise, he harshly ripped Arcade off of the counter and started to walk the willing man into the lit up living room. He let the knife be sheathed in a makeshift leather belt, hands holding the bound rope around Arcade till he found a spot to toss him. Throwing Arcade backwards by hard tugging on the rope, Arcade landed not so gracefully on his behind and scrambled backwards till his back met with an old torn blue couch that had settled with dust. Eyes widen, Arcade watched as the raider walked in front of him and held up one finger, in an action to tell him not to move.

 

Arcade nodded, not following the man with his eyes as the raider left and returned to the kitchen. Though his brain was foggy from the hit of the pistol, it was clear to the blonde that the raider that held him captive was the same stern faced man who had bent down and asked him about speaking Latin back at the Old Mormon Fort. A pit grew in his stomach, remembering the scared screams and sobs of his friends back at what he assumed was a now burned down safe haven. He shook his head, feeling like he could cry for several days straight.

 

The raider came back, reaching down to Arcade’s hands and tugging up for a moment. To the cleaner of the two’s surprise, he felt the strained rope fall loose onto the shag carpet below him with a few cuts of a knife. The man had untied him.

 

Arcade quickly rubbed the spots of his wrist where they had bruised imprints of the old rope, holding his wrists in front of him in his lap as he tried to soothe the burning pain. He jumped in a nervous reaction when the raider dropped an unopened cartoon of purified water next to him, slowly moving across the carpet to the television set he had been toying with.

 

Arcade selfishly opened the clean water, ripping off the seal and downing the water with generous gulps. It felt like an instant cure, the feeling of not having drank for a few days having took toll across his entire body. The water dripping down his chin, the raider watched the relieved Arcade wipe the water away from his mouth and sigh a breath of gratitude. They made eye contact for only a moment before Arcade shifted uncomfortably to stare at the carpet, his wrists, whatever he could. He didn’t want the man to think he was challenging him in a staring contest.

 

Within the room was a blue couch that Arcade was up against, a few pre-war books that were thrown uncaring onto a dusty small bookshelf, the cream colored broken television that stood in front of the raider, and a coffee table that was only a few feet in front of Arcade’s shoes. Seeing only the front door with a heavy chain on the inside and the windows of the home boarded up tight, Arcade figured his only means of escape was going to be the front entrance. The place was small, only having a kitchen, living room, and what Arcade was guessing a bedroom with a bathroom that was blocked off by a closed door near the right wall of the house. No upstairs, basement, or means of escape.

 

The raider broke Arcade’s train of thought, walking to the kitchen once more at a very slow pace till he came dragging his left lame leg back into the room with a radio between his hands, pressed to his chest. The man was walking with a limp, something the observant Arcade hadn’t noticed. He most likely would have took note if he hadn’t been threatened by death for the last few waking moments he had.

 

The brown skinned man sat the radio on the coffee table along with a fistful of wires he had took out of the television, the green and red wires in a tangled mess on top of the rough looking radio that seemed to be worse for wear. The raider sat down on the coffee table, watching Arcade’s body stiffen in fear when he had made himself comfortable within arms reach of the man. He was sitting with his feet planted firmly on the stained carpet, only a few inches from bumping into Arcade’s foot. Silence fell among them, the black painted man the one being to speak first.

 

“Radio. You fix?”

 

Arcade glanced from the mess of wires and broken radio back to the man, giving a slow nod in an effort to not make an sudden movements to startle the man. Arcade spoke with the words dripping, sitting up straighter as he reached his trembling hands out to take the radio and wires. “I can try. I’m going to take it, okay? Not going to hurt you. Nice and slow.”

 

The raider’s eyes glared at the pale hands that took the radio next to him, on edge and ready to kill at any given moment. He let himself relax when he saw Arcade comfortably sit back against the couch, items in hand in examination. Arcade opened the back of the music box, clearing his throat while adjusting his black framed glasses and took a look on the inside.

 

The raider spoke, crossing his arms and dark brown eyes trained on the soft looking Arcade, “Broke. Can’t fix it. No use.”

 

Arcade’s eyes went from the man in front of him back to the back of the radio as he bit his tongue to try and not smirk at the realization that the radio was, in fact, presenting a set of double AA batteries that were inserted into the springs the wrong way. He knew raiders were stupid from the chems and upbringing, but this? This was too good. Both had positive and negative facing the same way, the batteries stacked on top of each other in the slots. Arcade sat the Christmas colored wires next to him on the carpet and went to work at the simple solution. He flipped the batteries the right way, closed the back hatch, and turned the dial till the radio lit up with a yellow light and the sounds of classical music filling the lantern illuminated room.

 

The raider gasped, sitting up from his slumped posture and clapping his hands together as he took the radio eagerly from the proud Arcade, feeling a sense of pride for making a hard to please raider joyous.

 

The raider sat the radio down on the coffee table next to him, shifting his weight as a sting of pain crossed his face when moving his legs. Arcade noticed the reaction, eyebrows furrowing as the man try and find an ease of the throbbing coming from his ankle. Arcade, deciding it would be best to get on his captor’s good side, slowly reached for the dried muddied pant leg of the man to pull back and examine the injury. Arcade was met with, instead, a knife being pointed at him and a tense hiss of the man above him. Arcade didn’t pull away as he looked up to make eye contact with the animal like man, view half obstructed by the combat knife that threatened him.

 

“I’m a doctor, okay? Doctor. Medicine. Heal. I’m just looking, not going to hurt you. May I?”

 

The raider didn’t move for a moment, Arcade being able to see him think through the actions by the expression that was present on his face. A few seconds of considering, the hurt man gave one single nod of agreement with a mumble, “Gentle.”

 

Arcade forced himself to give the man a reassured smile, nothing of genuine happiness being able to come of him while he was held prisoner. Rolling up the pant leg with his colder than room temperature fingers, the man inhaled and sat still till his injury was exposed and in the open.

 

Arcade studied the swollen foot, taking mental notes of observation while his fingers very lightly skimmed the deep bruises along the ankle and lower heel of the foot. He asked, eyes not moving as he examined the injury, “How did this happen, if you don’t mind me asking? I might be able to help better if you tell me.”

 

The raider watched as Arcade applied pressure to various points, keeping his calm and knowing the intention wasn’t to harm by the agreement they had made. Bearing through the pain, he answered, “Trip.”

 

Arcade gave a nod, knowing that the answer was fair enough. He knew he might’ve been pushing his luck, but beings how he had the feeling he would be stuck with this caveman for more than a day, he might as well try to make conversation and get a glimpse into his life. After all, the life of a savage must be one of stories overflowing. Arcade’s mouth opened, hesitating, then speaking with an uncertain tone. “What were you, uh, running away from? By the looks of it, this wasn’t a Sunday stroll. It looks like you were running and left your foot behind eight yards away.”

 

The shirtless man shifted his hands that had been behind him, palms flat on the table having been holding him up. He sat up, moving his reddened hands to lay rested in his lap as he took in the question that he knew had nothing to do with his injury. Why would a salve want to make conversation? Watching Arcade move his right thumb across a particularly painful bruise, trying to ease it with some pressure, the raider decided to strike up a deal. He knew he could’ve forced the man to fix his injury by letting his knife do the talking, but he also knew that the medicine man could purposefully cause more pain to the man by preforming a procedure or physical therapy that would secretly be making the injury worse. The raider knew he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference in hurt versus help before it was too late.

 

“Fix foot. I’ll tell. Deal?”

 

Arcade wondered why a raider, one who had what seemed to be the power over his squad, was striking up a deal with a Follower of the Apocalypse and a weak one at that. Not wanting to miss out on his chance, Arcade nodded and agreed to the terms. He informed, resting back against the couch with his arms crossed, “Okay, that sounds good. I’ll need some bandages, though. I need something to wrap it in and you’ll have to keep your foot up so that it heals properly. Not a lot of walking, okay? You gotta give it some time. Do you have any bandages?”

 

The well built man gave out a positive sounding grunt, reaching into his dirt sponged pocket and pulling out a few pieces of torn fabric that looked like it had came from a shirt. The pieces of material were wrapped up around something, watching close as the raider let the pieces of off white cloth be unraveled to reveal small pieces of crumbled pastry having been tucked away inside for later consumption. He dumped the cake like substance onto the table, handing the pieces of clothing to Arcade.

 

It would have to do.

 

Arcade shook out the makeshift bandages of any stray crumbs, untying them from their strapped together position and began working on putting them around the hurt ankle, listening to hear the story of the animal that had murdered his friends and stole away his life. Arcade hated him, but out of curiosity waited for the story.

 

Wincing through the pain, the raider spoke with his tone wavering the uncomfortable feeling. “Was running after I was branded. Running, running, running. Upset. Mad. Wanted away from there.”

 

Arcade shifted his eyes up, sneaking a peek at the man recalling his unpleasant time with his eyes staring off at the carpet, not wanting to watch his foot be jostled. Arcade’s question was answered before he even posed it, listening on as the raider continued to speak to enlighten him.

 

“Branded means high up. Branded my name. Hurt. Ran because I . . . Don’t like raiders. Bad people, like Cook-Cook. Not like them. Branded then ran, needed to clear my head.”

 

Arcade wrapped the foot with the cloth, processing the information that he had been granted with. He knew of raiders being branded on their asses like Brahmin, recalling how branding was a significant initiation into elite tribe members. He also had heard ghost stories of the infamous Cook-Cook, a raider who would maliciously rape women of the Mojave for days and then would release them to live a life of PTSD and tragedy. He could argue that the man in front of him was bad, just as terrible for standing by and allowing the innocent people of the fort to executed, most likely by his own orders. Arcade was captured, yes, but he wasn’t being tortured or abused. That was something to be said, noted. Raiders often didn’t leave their prisoners intact.

 

Arcade finished wrapping the ankle, letting it sit gently on the carpet as the doctor stood, turned around, and proceeded to make a bed out of the couch using different torn pillows he found laying about. “You gotta keep that foot up. The couch should be the most comfortable, hm?”

 

He sat the discolored cushions into a stacked array, turning back to the man and stepping out of the pathway to allow him to lie down in a comfy position. The raider watched with uncertainty till Arcade reassured with, “You’ll heal quicker. I’m a doctor, I know these things.”

 

Breathing out a sigh, the raider stood and hopped on his better foot once over to the couch, flopping down with his bare back laying on the dusty cushions, swinging his wrapped ankle on top of the mound of pillows till he felt comfortable. He closed his dark eyes, groaning of soft relief, a very small smile curling his lips.

 

“Won’t tie up. Behave or I will.”

 

He reopened his eyes, settling his tired look onto Arcade’s blue that peered back at him from his standing position a few feet away. The raider squirmed, trying to find an even better lazy position to make himself feel better. Clearing his throat, the deep voice showed gratitude. “Thank you. I’m Akoni.”

 

Arcade, nodding in his humble nature, sat down on the floor where he had stood figuring that it was better to take things slow than try and escape all at once.

“My name is Arcade Gannon. It’s a, uh,pleasure to meet you.”

 

Akoni snorted at the words, shaking his head as he already felt sleep settling in. What an odd Freesider, happy to be going to Hell in a hand basket. Yawning, he topped the words.

“Pleasure all mine, Arcade Gannon.”

**Author's Note:**

> Arcade Gannon is my husband and I’ve been meaning to write something about him. Sorry that there isn’t that much dialogue this chapter! Next chapter will have a lot more because I won’t have to establish the location and all that boring stuff. Arcade next bit will let his quick wit show and maaaaaybe even a little gay :)


End file.
